Chapter 2

The next hour was a blur of calculated calm. My mind, once clouded by grief, was now a sharp instrument, replaying the events of my first life with chilling precision. I didn't just remember the pain; I remembered the details.

I remembered the exact layout of the VIP section at Club Neon. I remembered the brand of champagne Chloe had insisted on ordering. I remembered the smug, triumphant look in Brandon's eyes right before he dropped the small baggie of pills near my purse.

The most vivid memory was of Chloe's performance. She had clutched her chest, her voice breaking as she told the police I had threatened her.

"She said... she said this was my birthday present," Chloe had cried, tears streaming down her flawless face. "She said if I can have the perfect life, she can have the perfect revenge."

It was such a ridiculous, melodramatic line, but in the heat of the moment, with the drugs on the floor and Brandon's "confession," it worked. It painted me as a monster, a villain from a cheap soap opera.

And my parents. I remembered their faces as they arrived at the police station. My mother rushed past me, her arms going straight to a sobbing Chloe, cradling her as if she were the only one hurt. My father's words still echoed in my ears.

"We gave you everything, Olivia. A good education, a stable home. And this is how you repay us? By trying to send your sister's boyfriend to jail out of petty jealousy?"

They never even asked for my side of the story. Not really. They asked me to admit to their version of the truth.

The memory didn't bring tears this time. It brought fuel.

"Never again," I whispered to the empty room.

My old self would have spent the day agonizing, trying to figure out a way to talk to Chloe, to reason with her. My new self knew that reason was useless against calculated malice. You don't reason with a snake; you remove its fangs.

My plan began to form, not just as a vague desire for revenge, but as a series of concrete, actionable steps. They wanted to stage a drama? I would give them a masterpiece, with them as the tragic, foolish villains and me as the director.

They had used lies. I would use the truth. Their undoing wouldn't be a counter-accusation. It would be their own words, their own actions, laid bare for the world to see.

I needed one thing. A tool.

I grabbed my wallet and my keys, my movements swift and purposeful. I left my dorm and walked briskly across campus to the small electronics store just off University Avenue. The bell on the door chimed, and a bored-looking clerk glanced up from his phone.

"Can I help you?"

"I need an audio recorder," I said, my voice even. "Something small, high-quality. With long battery life and Bluetooth connectivity."

The clerk pointed me towards a glass case filled with gadgets. I examined them carefully, not looking for the cheapest, but the best. I found what I was looking for: a tiny device, no bigger than a coat button, that advertised twelve hours of continuous recording and a live-listening feature through a phone app.

It was perfect.

"I'll take this one," I said, placing it on the counter.

I paid in cash, my hands steady. As I walked out of the store, the small box felt heavy in my palm, a tangible piece of the justice I was about to build for myself.

Back in my room, I unboxed the recorder and spent the next thirty minutes learning its functions. I downloaded the app, paired the device to my phone, and tested it. I placed the tiny recorder on my bookshelf and walked to the other side of the room, whispering. The playback on my phone was crystal clear.

The trap was ready. All I had to do was wait for the actors to walk into it. I glanced at the clock. Brandon was supposed to pick me up in two hours.

I sat on my bed, the recorder in my hand, and took a deep, steadying breath. The fear and despair of my past life were shadows, but the memory of the pain was a fire. This time, I wouldn't be the one getting burned.